


quiet, endless (aftermath)

by Ejunkiet



Series: lay me down to rest [2]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Ava understands and comforts the best she can, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Found Family, Nate comprehends, Rebecca grieves, Seven Years Bad Luck, the aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: There was no other way, he wants to say. Instead, he says"I couldn't lose her,"and it's the truth, too much of it, but he's fraying too, the taste of blood too strong on his tongue, his clothes painted in it.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: lay me down to rest [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815415
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	quiet, endless (aftermath)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil_bunny_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts).



> So this is dedicated to the wonderful bunny, whose wonderful fic got me writing N Sewell and Wayhaven stories in the first place.

It's quiet, in the aftermath.

They’d been found on the outskirts of town by the remainder of unit bravo, frozen and half sodden by the rain that had fallen after the sun had set, the body of the detective curled protectively in Nate’s lap. Her pulse had been weak, thready, and it’d taken the combined efforts of Mason and Ava to ease her from his arms and into the back of the waiting agency SUV. 

He remembers only bits and pieces of what happened next. 

He knows, objectively, that he'd been moved to a local agency facility to give his statement, that he’d been asked to wait to give it again to Rebecca - _Agent Batra,_ when she arrived.

He knows that she is in the room with him now. He knows that he's already answered her questions.

She doesn’t sit, and he can’t look at her, so he focuses instead on the papers before him, recognising his handwriting but not the act itself, and waits.

"Just tell me one thing. That you had to do it."

Agent Batra’s posture is stiff, her fingers gripped knuckle white on the file she holds in her hands - signed copies of his testimony - as if it's the only thing keeping her together, and he - he feels the same.

There's blood under his fingernails _,_ staining his skin, flaking in rust coloured flecks onto the metal surface of the interrogation table. It's his own, for the most part, bright crimson, and garish against the pale white of his nail beds, unnatural in the fluorescent light.

He turns over his hands so he can’t see it, curling his nails into his palms until he can feel the bite against his skin, and exhales.

There was no other way, he wants to say. Instead, he says _"I couldn't lose her,"_ and it's the truth, too much of it, but he's fraying too, the taste of blood too strong on his tongue, his clothes painted with it.

Her eyes waver in the harsh lighting, soft and broken in a way he's never seen from her before, a splintering of her usual self. She appears older, the creases at the corners of eyes deepened, and the chasm in his chest widens, dark and yawning, until it threatens to consume him.

He meets Rebecca’s gaze, and he sees the parts of her that he recognises. The arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the sharp line of her jaw - and when he breathes in, he catches traces of Dinah’s scent, mingled with hers. It's subtle but distinct, that complex mix of hormones and genetics that persists through the generations, marking the bloodlines.

Rebecca matches his stare, and he wonders what she sees when she looks at him. His gentle smiles, or the sharp teeth they hide. He thinks about Murphy and the trail of bodies left in his wake, thinks of all the pain and suffering he’d inflicted, and how there’s more he shares with that monster than the woman in front of him.

He curls his fingers tighter into his palms, until the nails cut through the skin.

There’s a sharp rap on the door, interrupting the moment. Ava lets herself into the room after a short pause, her silhouette swallowing the door frame as her gaze flickers over them both - Nate seated at the table, Rebecca close to the door.

"Is she-" 

She turns to meet the agent’s gaze as her voice cuts off, her features softening as she nods and steps further into the room. 

"She’s stable."

Agent Batra takes a stumbling step back at the words, her breath leaving her in a broken gasp. Ava reaches out to stabilise her as she wavers, but she shakes her head, holding out a hand, asking the woman to wait.

Ava settles back on her heels, hands held stiffly at her side as she watches Rebecca steady herself. Her voice is gentler when she speaks again, stepping forward to take the file from the woman’s hand. 

“You should go. I can handle it from here.”

Rebecca’s eyes flash to hers, a grateful twist to her lips as she inclines her head in a nod.

“Thank you, Agent du Mortain.” She takes a breath, and then another, before straightening her spine and turning towards the door.

She doesn’t say anything else as she steps around Ava, and neither do either of the vampires in the room, waiting until she’s passed through the door and further down the corridor, footsteps fading into the distance.

Ava turns to Nate then, her gaze flickering over him, taking in his tattered appearance, what remains of his shirts torn and splattered with blood and ichor, before her eyes settle on his wrist and the bandages there. 

Nate feels the stare like a brand. He can feel the wound there, the wetness of it, beneath the layers of gauze, the flickers of pain that radiate from it when he flexes his fingers.

It won't heal for some time.

He averts his gaze, focusing instead on the table in front of him. His skin feels hot, drawn tight across his frame as if it's a size too small, as it had when he'd just been turned, and his hands move to the metal frame, gripping tight, white-knuckled.

"Will it take?" His voice is barely audible above the hum of the air conditioner, but he knows Ava hears him, can sense it in the way she shifts on her feet behind him, the uptick in her heartbeat at the question. 

"It should."

The tightness in his chest alleviates, if only fractionally. He lets his head drop down to his chest, his grip on the table easing as he folds in on himself, finally, letting himself fall forwards until he's slumped over the metal table.

He clears his throat, trying to find the words. 

"I-"

He flinches as a hand settles on his shoulder, warm and solid and steadying as Nate breathes, and breathes again.

Ava releases a slow breath, long and calm, and he uses it to anchor himself to this moment, here.

"I know."

Ava doesn't continue beyond that statement, and they share a quiet moment together, the air hushed and weighted with thoughts he can't begin to address, not like this. Her grip flexes on his shoulder, her touch cool against his heated skin as her fingers slip past the remnants of his collar, brushing at the torn edges, before she draws back.

"It's time to leave, Nate."

Her hand moves to his elbow, her grip gentle as she applies pressure, easing Nate to his feet.

He follows.

\--

There's an agency issued SUV waiting for them outside the outpost, black and featureless, the same that had arrived to take the detective away earlier. He takes care to limit his breathing as he enters on the passenger side, rolling down the window until he can feel the air on his face, sharp and cold with the first bite of winter. 

Ava doesn’t comment on it as she takes the keys from the agency liaison and takes position behind the wheel, pulling them out of the parking lot and onto the road. 

The journey back to the agency facility is a blur of motion, although the trip itself must take several hours. He doesn’t remember much of it aside from small details - the way the air had changed as they left the mountains, the scent of the rain in the distance, the pressure increasing with the oncoming storm. 

Ava is a steady presence at his side when they finally reach the warehouse, dealing with the others that have come to greet them - he thinks he catches a glimpse of Farah, maybe Morgan, a memory of smoke - before she takes him inside, leading him through the corridors to their living quarters.

It’s only when they’ve finally reached his room that she hesitates, suddenly awkward again as she lingers at the threshold, watching him, fingers wrapped tight around the doorframe.

"I can wait with you," she offers when he looks back at her - and he can see that she means it, means to stay with him as long as he needs her, other duties be damned.

He can’t and won’t ask that of her. 

"It's alright." It’s been several hours since he’d last spoken, and the words come out cracked, barely audible - but her eyes flicker to his, holding steady, and he knows she’d heard well enough. “I will be fine, my friend.”

She nods, understanding even if she doesn’t quite approve, and he can read her uncertainty as she takes a step back and goes to close the door. 

"Thank you, Ava." It’s barely a murmur, but she catches it all the same, and he sees her smile - small and edged with sadness - before the door shuts and she is gone.

He listens to the sound of her footsteps until they fade, and he's left in the silence.

It's never felt so absolute.

He turns to face the room and - and he sees his reflection in the vanity mirror of the dressing table in the far corner of the room. Sees the smear of red on his clothes, his face, his lips-

He can taste blood in his mouth again, smell it on his clothes - and he tears at the material, ripping the tattered fragments from his body until he has them in his hands, until he can throw them at the image, scattering it - _breaking it._

The mirror falls from the vanity with a muffled clatter, falling heavily to the floor - where it shatters, sending a spray of glass shards across the room - but he could care less for the loss, stripping until he is completely bare before heading to the ensuite.

He keeps his eyes averted from the mirror, making his way towards the shower stall. It’s better, without the lights - there’s no other lightsource aside from the door, and while he can still _see_ , the details are less clear, almost dream-like.

He moves into the stall and reaches for the faucet, ignoring the way the blood on his hands looks black in this light as he turns the water on full and steps in.

The heat of the water is nearly scalding, the pressure steady and constant as it drums against his shoulders, but he can still smell the blood in the water, circling the drain, and he- _he-_

All he can think about is how small Dinah felt in his arms, the barely there thread of her pulse as he clutched her to his chest and prayed in a way he hadn’t in centuries that she would make it, that this wouldn’t be the end. 

Before he made the decision that it wouldn't.

His fist makes contact with the shower wall, the ceramic shattering on impact as he braces himself against the broken tiles, not registering the pain as the splinters cut into his skin.

She'd deserved a choice, a true one. A chance to refuse what he was offering her - a chance he'd wished that he'd faced, over three centuries ago.

The situation had been unprecedented, but if there was one thing he had learned from all his years walking this earth, is that there was always time for choice.

He thinks about Dinah, thinks about Rebecca, and as the guilt burrows in his chest, choking in his throat, he wonders if he can be forgiven.

He doesn't think he can forgive himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!! Please come find me on tumblr (ejunkiet)!


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